Following The Procedure

The wail of turbojets faded into the thin morning air as the last interceptor clawed into the sky, its afterburner trailing behind like a molten lance. I stood at the hangar doors and watched until it pierced the clouds and vanished, nothing left but the rolling thunder of sound chasing itself across the tarmac.

Behind me, the hangar came alive again: voices, clattering tools, and the brisk movement of ground crew preparing for the inevitable return. Fuel trucks hissed. Someone swore over a spanner dropped on concrete. But I had no job to do until the jets came back, no orders to fill or checklists to run through. So I simply drifted, waiting, my boots echoing softly on the polished floor.

My fingers brushed the sticker pad at my side like a talisman. Three left. Two yellow-and-pink blooms and one dark green with a neon-blue outline. The paper edges had curled from the heat of my hands. I knew it was superstition, nothing more - flowers pressed onto metal, prayers whispered to speed and fire - but the anxiety still chewed at me. I had already ordered more, but in wartime the mail service moved like a wounded bird. Even something as small and simple as a sheet of stickers could take weeks to arrive.

I hugged the pad to my chest as if it weighed more than the world, pacing between workbenches and tool carts, pretending the bright little shapes could protect someone thousands of feet above me. Pretending I could still control anything at all.

When the squadron finally returned, the first howl of airbrakes sent my heart racing. I was at the ladder before the wheels even touched the taxiway. The metal clattered against the fuselage as I scaled it, climbing up into Raffy’s world. He looked up at me as I leaned in, already helping with his straps. His eyes searched mine for a flicker of bad news.

I shook my head, smiling faintly. The sticker was, of course, gone.

He nodded, and there was a tinge of sadness in that movement, but he still held himself steady, shoulders square even if his hands trembled faintly on the cockpit rim. He stepped down from the ladder with care and walked off toward debrief, his figure swallowed by the hangar’s shadows.

I stayed where I was for a moment, the smell of scorched jet fuel and oil thick in my lungs. My gaze drifted down to the sticker pad again. Three left.

A plan began to form - small at first, like a tiny seed cracking open. I decided in that moment that I wasn’t just going to stand by and hope anymore. If physics denied me a chance to be truly happy, then I would defy physics. If this war bent the rules, I would bend them too.

I was in charge.

I made the rules of this game.

And I was free to cheat as much as I wanted.

“Stay safe, alright?”

My voice sounded strange in my own ears - too soft, too fragile. Raffy simply nodded, his expression half-hidden by the oxygen mask and visor. His mind was already in the sky, far ahead of his body. I handed him the oxygen pipe, gave him a thumbs-up, and he returned it automatically. For a moment, I lingered - just a heartbeat too long - before forcing myself to step back.

The ladder clattered as I dragged it away. Then came the sounds I knew by heart. The starter motor’s rising whine. The sharp hiss of fuel injection. The clicking of igniters, followed by that deep, throaty burp that marked the first breath of life. A roar swelled as the turbine devoured the air, and I felt the vibration hum up through the soles of my boots.

I didn’t bother covering my ears anymore. The sound was part of me now - the rhythm of our routine, our ritual. I watched as the jet rolled forward, no longer lurching or stuttering as it once had. Raffy’s touch had grown steady. Confident. Professional. Through the glare on the canopy, I could just make out his silhouette - the slight tilt of his helmeted head - and then the engine’s roar deepened into a scream.

He surged down the runway, and with one last blinding shimmer of exhaust heat, he was gone - a streak of light vanishing into the morning sky.

When his jet returned hours later, my heart was already a runaway thing. It thudded against my ribs as the tractor pushed the machine slowly back into the hangar. I tried to calm it - deep breaths, slow steps - but it was useless. I was trembling long before the engines even shut down.

The ladder was already waiting, just where it should be, but as the canopy lifted and the smell of burnt kerosene hit me, something in me twisted. My eyes darted to the nose - the empty space where the sticker should’ve been.

And in that instant, my nerve broke.

I froze halfway across the hangar. My pulse roared louder than the turbines ever had. Before I could think, I turned on my heel, forcing myself toward the ladder as though nothing had happened. My body moved on instinct; my mind screamed the whole way.

By the time I reached him, Raffy was already peeling off his gloves. I climbed up, helped him with the harness and helmet, tried to smile, but my throat was tight. He mumbled something about turbulence, exhaustion, maybe both. I didn’t even register his words.

When he climbed down, I stayed behind a moment longer, staring at the place where the sticker had once been. My reflection wavered on the scorched paint.

One more. I’d only get one more shot.

I climbed down, quietly finishing my duties, but no amount of work could still the pounding in my chest.